


Dirty Hobbies, Filthy Minds

by heyitsamorette (AmoretteHD)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Mystery, Quidditch, Romance, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:59:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3619071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmoretteHD/pseuds/heyitsamorette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spying on someone isn’t all bad; not when they are doing something dastardly and it’s up to Harry to stop it. It’s not his fault said person decides to get naked every time he’s up to his evil plans. A remix of <a href="http://digthewriter.livejournal.com/4919.html">Spying for Pleasure</a> by "digthewriter, which does not have to be read first for this story to make sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Hobbies, Filthy Minds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [digthewriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/digthewriter/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Spying for Pleasure](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/105390) by Digthewriter. 



If Harry hadn’t spotted the Bludger from the corner of his eye, he would have been flattened against the metal pole of the goal hoop. Luckily, he ducked just as the ball whizzed by him and flew to the other side of the field.

“Watch it!” he yelled, flying back up to protect the goals. He looked in the direction from which the Bludger had come.

One of his Beaters, little Cecilia Lang, shrugged her shoulders. She was only a second year and had just joined the team, so he often forgave her certain elementary mistakes, but even she should know not to hit the Bludger at the Keeper.

Harry exhaled hard through his nose and kicked an oncoming Quaffle away from the goal. He never remembered practices being quite so easy. Or maybe it was just that Quidditch felt insanely simple after the horror of last year.

He heard the distinct whistle of a heavy ball thundering through the air, and he spun around on his broom so fast he got dizzy. That ruddy Bludger again! And this time it had whirled dangerously close to his head.

Which was weird, because Cecilia was all the way over there, and his other Beater, Hilary Stout, another second year with wavy blonde hair and Cecilia’s roommate, was flying toward him from the opposite direction. Neither of them could have hit that Bludger.

Bloody Bludgers. His least favorite of the Quidditch balls. They went berzerk sometimes and developed quite a mind of their own, which always made Harry uneasy. They weren’t as intelligent as the Snitch, not by far; Bludgers were just big, blundering idiots roaring through the air and hoping to hit something… or someone.

Harry readjusted his grip on his broom handle, flexing his fingers in the stiff leather Keeper’s gloves. This position was new for him, but it wasn’t too bad. Ginny would give up the Seeker’s position over her dead body, and the other girls who had tried out were begging for the other spots, and Keeper was the only one left ever since Ron decided not to take it back up. But he was touched that McGonagall asked him back to the team as Captain, so he gladly accepted any position offered to him.

_Whoosh!_

“What are you doing?” Harry yelled as he dodged the Bludger a _third_ time. “You’re supposed to aim for the Chasers, not the bloody Keeper!”

“Sorry, Harry!” Cecilia called from a few feet away. “We had nothing to do with it.”

“Nothing to do with it? You’re the Beaters, you’re the ones beating the damn thing.” He stared at her incredulously. “We really need to work on your aim.” And sense of direction, come to think of it.

“That’s what she’s trying to tell you, Harry,” Hilary chimed in as she swept closer on her broom. “Cecilia and I haven’t been anywhere near a Bludger all through practice. They won’t come within a foot of us. I’ve been chasing the same one this whole time and it keeps flying away from me.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Flying away from you… and straight towards me.”

“Harry, look out!” Cecilia shouted, pointing behind him.

Harry turned around and saw the black Bludger flying toward him at breakneck speed. He tilted his broom up just in time, flying up and out of it’s path, and it hit the goal post with a heavy sounding _thwack!_ As it raced back the way it came, a black skid mark shined clearly on the metal post. That thing would have broken right through Harry’s bones if it had hit him.

“What’s going on?” he muttered to himself.

Before he had any time to mull it over, the same Bludger made a narrow turn and headed straight toward him again. Harry spun in place and raced the other way, determined to avoid it. The ball was quick on his tail.

Harry remembered another time Bludgers were out to get him, and that was in his second year… when they had been cursed.

He flew up, up, higher and higher, but the ball never wavered from its path. Eventually, he passed right by Ginny, who had been scanning the field for the Snitch.

“Harry?” she asked.

“Bludger!” Harry shouted, not stopping or looking back, and he heard her yelp. The Bludger must have flown really close to her.

He looked up and saw another black ball coming at him. The second Bludger. He was about to be smashed from both ends, and that sort of impact would surely break more than just his glasses.

Harry’s heart raced as fast as his broom as he flew toward the stands. He made as if to fly right into them, and then pulled his broom up at the last moment. His stomach turned when he heard a loud splintering of wood as both Bludgers crashed into a row of seats.

He scanned the ground frantically. His wand was lying in the grass below. If he stopped long enough to land and grab it, the Bludgers would have time to reach him. He’d be a sitting duck.

So Harry swung his broom back up and raced around the pitch.

“Someone get their wand!” He yelled. “Quick!”

It was Monifa Dia, one of the Chasers, who touched ground first and grabbed her wand. He heard her screaming the spell. _Finite Incantatum._

Harry risked a glance behind him, and to his shock, the spell had worked. Part of him hadn’t really expected it to, but there they were: both Bludgers floated in mid air as if bouncing on invisible strings.

Harry breathed out a sigh of relief, realizing at once how tense his entire body had been. Slowing his pace, he floated down to the grass where the rest of his team had already congregated. Hilary and Cecilia, his Beaters. Demelza Robbins, Ida Epstein, and Monifa Dia, his Chasers. And finally Ginny, his Seeker.

“Thanks,” he told Monifa breathlessly as he dismounted.

With wide eyes, Monifa looked up at the sky, staring at the Bludgers. Her tight brown curls bounced against her shoulders. “What’s wrong with them?” she asked, squinting against the setting sun.

“Well it’s obvious they’ve been cursed, haven’t they?” said Ginny, batting her long red hair off her shoulders. “Your spell removed a hex.”

“But who would hex the Bludgers?” Hilary asked.

Demelza adjusted her leather riding gloves with a look of suspicion in her eyes. She had been a Chaser on the team since Harry’s sixth year, so she had more biases than the new girls. Which is why Harry wasn’t surprised when she said, through gritted teeth, “The Slytherins.”

“What would the Slytherins know about it?” asked Ida Epstein, a tall fifth year girl with an angular but pretty face.

“They’d know a lot about it,” Demelza said. “I know they had the field before us. I came early to try warming up a little before practice, but they were still here. The Bludgers weren’t giving _them_ any trouble.”

There was a tense silence.

Harry pressed his lips together. He didnt want to believe that the Slytherins had anything to do with cursing the balls - he liked to think things had changed and become somehow more settled this year. But what Demelza said certainly looked bad for the Slytherins. Something twinged in his gut that felt very much like disappointment. Followed by anger.

They should all get over this petty rivalry and starting fresh this year! The war was over, and everyone who came back heard McGonagall’s speech at the welcoming feast: it was up to all of them to change things and to cherish the newfound peace.

“Maybe it wasn’t them,” Harry said, determined to hold onto some kind of hope for as long as he could.

“Of course it was!” Delemza insisted. “I’m telling you, I saw them practicing just before us and nothing looked out of sorts. I bet they saw me there, figured out Gryffindor was practicing after them, and then cursed the Bludgers just for fun. Or,” she lowered her voice darkly, and everyone leaned in to listen, “they want to injure us all before the match.”

The girls all gasped. Except Ginny, who looked at Harry with a frown. He knew she was thinking the same thing as he was.

“If the Slytherins did this, I’d be very surprised,” Harry said, hoping to calm them down before they latched onto this idea and became hysterical about it. “Besides, we have no proof. There are roughly fifteen minutes between our practices so there wasn’t much time for them to concoct an evil plan.”

“It doesn’t take very long to cast a hex,” muttered Ida under her breath, looking away when Harry’s eyes snapped to her.

“That means anyone,” he continued pointedly, “could have snuck into the broomshed in that case, cast a quick spell, and left unnoticed. Demelza, did you see anybody else hanging around the pitch?”

Delemza rolled her eyes. “Only Pansy Parkinson mooning over Malfoy, as usual. She’s always sitting in the stands waving at him and being generally pathetic. But other than her, there was no one else. The pitch is pretty far from the castle and there’s only the one path; I don’t think it’s likely someone could have managed to walk here and back in fifteen minutes without being spotted.”

Harry wanted to say he could definitely imagine it, since he’d snuck around the grounds countless times in his Invisibility Cloak, but he simply nodded instead.

The mention of Parkinson distracted him. Was she really still so smitten with Malfoy that she came to watch all the Slytherin practices? He knew the two of them were… whatever they were, before the war. He just hadn’t really thought about Malfoy as having a girlfriend lately. Not that he thought about him all that much. Only it wasn’t easy to avoid Malfoy with all the Eighth Year’s sharing the same classes.

He didn’t want to think about Malfoy right now. It always managed to leave him feeling agitated and on the cusp of anger. He hated that Malfoy got under his skin like that, it was really fucking inconvenient since he had to see him all day, five days a week.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Harry said, hoping he could put an end to the matter. But he looked at Ginny, and she was still frowning.

 

 

“What do you think?” Harry asked Ginny in hushed tones as they made their way back to the castle. They were walking behind the rest of the team, which had scampered on ahead. The girls seemed to have moved on from the topic of Slytherins and onto something that had them laughing uproariously.

“Demelza could very well be right,” Ginny said. She carried her broom over her shoulder, the one Harry got her as a birthday gift this past August… right before they had their big row and broke it off. “I wouldn’t put it past Slytherin to try to sabotage our match.”

Harry let out a deep sigh. “Don’t you think they’re past that?”

“No.” Ginny looked up at him, and her eyes were suddenly soft. “Oh, Harry, I know you want to think of the best of everyone, but I don’t think grudges go away so quickly.”

“I’m not stupid,” he said. “I just really thought things would be different this year.”

“I know, and I wish they were, too.”

“It’s just... Malfoy doing something like that, after everything we’ve all been through? He seems to have grown up a bit. Don’t you think?”

“You would know better than I would,” Ginny said with a shrug.

“What?” Harry stopped walking. “Why would you say that?”

Ginny stopped, too, turning to look at him with a furrowed brow. “Because you two share all the same classes,” she said.

“Oh.” Harry realized he’d been holding his breath. “Right.”

She raised an eyebrow and then continued walking. “Maybe he’s angry that you put his father in Azkaban, so he wants to take it out on you in Quidditch,” she suggested.

“Even if he’s angry about that -- which he should have seen coming -- I don’t think he would take it that far.”

“Didn’t you?” Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Harry are you forgetting this is Malfoy we’re talking about? The bloke who pretended to be a Dementor during a Quidditch match, and who _poisoned_ someone, and who was a _Death Eater_ , and --”

“Okay, okay. I get it.” Harry looked away from her. Reluctantly, if only to himself, he had to admit she had a point. But the further they walked down the dirt path, the ground slightly wet and muddy beneath their feet, the more Harry found his teeth grinding. They neared the castle, and with every step closer came an impending sense of urgency. “This is not on,” he said suddenly, and Ginny raised her eyebrows at him. “Things can’t go on this way forever, with the Gryffindor and Slytherin houses just hating each other.”

“What are you going to do about it? People’s prejudices don’t just go away, Harry. It’s going to take time, no matter how many speeches McGonagall gives about tolerance. Do you think you can just shake Draco Malfoy and tell him to quit it?”

“That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea,” Harry said, and Ginny snorted.

Actually, the more he thought about it, the better and better it sounded. He flexed his fingers at his sides, finding it extremely tempting to imagine literally shaking some sense into Malfoy.

 

 

Malfoy was already there. Of course he was, Malfoy never missed an opportunity to visit the Three Broomsticks every Hogsmeade trip and then proceed to stumble back to the castle with his pals, laughing and pissing about. So it was no surprise to see him sitting at the bar, throwing back his mug of pale ale. Parkinson fluttered around him, hanging off his arm, and Zabini was sipping his own drink on Malfoy’s other side. Did they ever leave him alone for one second?

Harry squared his shoulders, took a breath, and weaved through the hoard of students. Malfoy spotted him from the corner of his eye and slowly looked up, watching Harry make his way to the bar. Harry held the cold gaze of Malfoy’s grey eyes, which were beginning to shine from drink.

“Well, well,” Malfoy said. Pansy turned her head, and upon seeing Harry, an ugly snarl graced her mouth. “It’s Potter, everyone,” Malfoy continued. “Care to have a drink with us, Potter? Beer? Firewhiskey?”

“I’m all right, thanks,” Harry said.

“Then what do you want?” Pansy said. Her eyes were as chilly as the wind outside currently blowing through Hogsmeade.

Harry looked away from her. Zabini was also staring at him, though his gaze showed something more like curiosity. They all stared at him steadily. Harry put his hands in his pockets.

“Just wanted to have a word with Malfoy. If that’s okay with all of you, of course,” he added with a hint of sarcasm.

Malfoy quirked an eyebrow. “With me? I wonder what this is about.”

“I think you know,” Harry said.

“I can assure you I don’t,” Malfoy said with a smirk, “but I’m ever so interested.” He slid off the barstool, stepping close enough that Harry could smell the musk of his cologne. He stared at Malfoy’s open collar and the elegant line of his neck.

“If you want to say anything in to Draco,” Pansy blurted, shoving herself in between them like some unofficial bodyguard, “you’re going to have to say it in front of us as well.” Her jaw was set and Harry knew he wasn’t joking; she looked like she wanted to whip her wand out and start a duel.

Harry licked his lips, about to tell her in no polite terms to bugger off, when Malfoy put a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Pansy,” he said, sounding lofty in a way only Malfoy could, “I can hold my own against Potter, should it come to it.”

Harry snorted. As if he were going around threatening people. “All I want to do is talk,” he said, unsuccessful at hiding his impatience. He’d had quite enough of this lot, and the sooner he got this over with the better. Grabbing Malfoy by the shirtsleeve, he pulled him a few feet away from his friends, ignoring his protests.

“Hey,” Malfoy said, straightening out his sleeve, “this is a new shirt.”

Just barely avoiding rolling his eyes, Harry lowered his voice just in case Pansy the Protector was trying to listen in. “I’m only going to ask you once, Malfoy, and I expect a straight answer.”

Malfoy raised both eyebrows, appearing genuinely surprised at Harry’s declaration. He widened his stance and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Okay, Potter,” he said, “go ahead.”

There was no way he was expecting Malfoy to come right out with it. He was obviously going to lie through his teeth and pretend he had no idea what Harry was talking about. But he wanted Malfoy to know he was onto him; that Harry was watching him. He wanted to see the realization cross Malfoy’s face when Harry accused him -- the nerves settle on his brow, the minute twitch of his eye as he tried to lie -- and maybe Malfoy would think twice about putting Harry’s team in that kind of danger again.

Head to head, Harry looked Malfoy right in the eye. “Did you know the practice bludgers attacked us as we were practicing?”

But if Malfoy did know, he didn’t show it, much to Harry’s frustration. Malfoy was a good actor. A good liar. His brow creased in a look of genuine confusion.

“What bludgers, Potter?”

“The bludgers we practice with. The Quidditch bludgers. What other bludgers would I be talking about?”

“How am I supposed to know what you’re talking about? And I have no idea what’s wrong with the bludgers; there was nothing wrong with them when _we_ were practicing.”

“Of course there wasn’t, because you hexed them right after you were done with them.”

Malfoy opened his mouth briefly, closing it again quickly. “I didn’t touch the Bludgers. I swear,” he insisted, leaning forward. His stare was so intense, Harry felt like if he swayed, he would fall into Malfoy’s grey gaze. “I didn’t even put them away after practice,” Malfoy continued.

“Yeah, of course you didn’t.”

“You don’t believe me.”

Harry thought Malfoy would appear more guilty, but he was _such_ a good actor. He would’ve believed Malfoy if he didn’t know him, and know what he was capable of.

“Look,” Harry said. “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Potter, I ---”

“I don’t want to see any of my teammates in the hospital wing after next practice.”

Malfoy was about to speak, but Harry held his hand up.

“I’m serious, Malfoy. One more trick and we won’t just be having a nice, friendly chat.”

Malfoy’s face turned hard, but Harry didn’t stick around to hear what he had to say. He’d done what he came to do, so he turned around and made his way back through the pub. Hopefully the message sunk into Malfoy’s stupid blond head and there would be no more surprises.

 

 

“I don’t believe it,” Harry said, clutching the Map tightly.

“What is it?” Ron asked from his bed a couple feet away.

The dormitory was dark and the other boys were asleep, but Harry and Ron had stayed up, their bedside lamps casting warm glows.

“Malfoy is down in the changing rooms. He just doesn’t quit, does he?”

“He’s probably hexing the Quaffle this time,” Ron said. “Better make sure you duck whenever someone tries to score a point. No matter where it’s aimed at, I’m willing to bed it’ll come straight for you.”

Harry sighed. “Why does he have to make things so difficult? Why couldn’t he have just left it alone like I told him to?”

“As if Malfoy was going to listen to you.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking confronting him like that. It probably only pissed him off more.”

“What are you going to do?”

Harry looked at him.

Ron’s lips quirked. “Just go.”

Harry didn’t waste a moment. He was up and out of bed in seconds, underneath his Invisibility Cloak, swiftly making his way out of the castle. The cold air occasionally swept up the cloak and chilled Harry’s legs through his thin pajama bottoms.

As he approached the Quidditch field, he slowed his steps. He didn’t want to alert Malfoy by crunching on the gravel, but his trainers were rather noisy on the dry path.

When they were rebuilding the castle this summer, they decided to add showers to the changing room. It was a bit indulgent of them, as McGonagall suggested multiple times, but in the end she conceded and let them go on with it. Harry had only used the new showers once, but they were decadent; still, nowhere as lavish as the prefect’s bath, but they were still better than the dormitory showers. They lived in a separate room built as an addition to the changing rooms, separated by large pillars.

That’s where the light was coming from now.

Harry crept as quietly as he could up to the first pillar, hoping his cloak wouldn’t ride up and expose his feet. The pitter pattering of water splashed loudly against the tiles. Malfoy was actually having a shower right now? Harry squinted against the steam permeating from the shower room. He crept closer, inhaling the thick, warm air.

The steam came from the first stall, and Harry hid behind another pillar, his heart racing.

Malfoy hadn’t bothered to draw the curtain.

Had he just seen what he thought he’d seen?

He really should just get out of there. It was clear Malfoy wasn’t anywhere near any Quidditch equipment, since he couldn’t hex a Bludger while soap himself up at the same time. There wasn’t any reason for Harry to stay.

Harry poked his head back around the pillar, feeling like the world’s biggest pervert but wholly unable to resist having another look.

Soap suds slid down Malfoy’s toned stomach, and Harry bit his lip in an effort to keep back a groan of appreciation. Major appreciation. Malfoy’s body was stunning, especially wet and glistening like that. It was evident he played sport, with those lean arms and legs… Just then, Malfoy turned and gave Harry a full-frontal view of his bits.

Instant heat ran through Harry and pooled low in his stomach. He couldn’t take his eyes off Malfoy’s cock, hanging over perfect balls and framed by dark blond hair. Harry wanted to bury his face there, possibly rub his nose in the hair before licking down the shaft.

God, where were these thoughts _coming_ from? This intense desire for Malfoy’s cock in his mouth. Harry had often thought of other blokes, but never Malfoy. And suddenly, it was like the waves crashed inside him and settled into something that felt so _right_ , and so _hot_. Harry was fucking burning under that cloak.

The warmth of the showers was too much. Coupled with his suddenly inability to breathe that had nothing at all to do with the steam clouding around him, Harry was sure he was about to pass out. He had to get out of there and into some fresh air. The cool, blissful fresh air outside.

He barely remembered the walk back to the castle; his mind swirled with images of Malfoy being assailed by streams of water. It was enough to make him half hard by the time he reached his bed again. He didn’t even check to make sure Ron was asleep before chucking his clothes off as fast as he could and jumping into bed, pulling the curtains closed around him.

He stroked himself to images of Malfoy. Malfoy doing all sorts of dirty things that would necessitate countless showers.

 

 

At least the Bludgers weren’t deranged during the Ravenclaw match. Harry wasn’t pummeled by runaway Quaffles either, they were just normal Quaffles that he was perfectly able to block from getting into the hoops. And the Snitch was a typical Snitch, and Ginny caught it in her typical speedy fashion. Actually, the only thing extraordinary about this match was that Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw faster that they ever had before; the game was over in under an hour’s time.

“Looks like Malfoy kept his hands off the balls this time,” Ginny said after the hugs and cheers dissipated and they got a chance to breathe again.

Harry laughed nervously. They were making their way to the changing rooms to put away their brooms, gloves, and knee guards. During the game, Harry had spotted Malfoy’s blond head in the stands -- okay, so he’d been actively looking for it -- and nearly let Ravenclaw score a point. But he had seen Pansy’s dark head move ever closer to Malfoy’s and that was very distracting, especially since Harry needed to make sure they weren’t snogging.

“But I’ve still got my eye on him,” Ginny said. “He’s probably just biding his time until our match against _them_. And then all the balls will go haywire.”

Because snogging in plain sight like that would just be… unseemly.

They walked up to the doors of the changing rooms and Harry gripped the handle, ready to pull, when a low chuckle rang from around the corner. Harry let go of the door, and both he and Ginny looked to their right, trying to listen for the sound.

Ginny looked at him with bright eyes. “Let’s go see who that was.”

“Ginny, if they’re hiding, they obviously want some privacy.” Harry had never been comfortable with public displays of affection -- the memory of Madame Puddifoot’s with Cho Chang still flashed painfully in his mind in terms of top embarrassing moments -- and he had a feeling the people sneaking around the corner of the building were up to certain activities they didn’t want others to witness, and which Harry wasn’t particularly keen on witnessing anyways.

“Oh, don’t be such a prude,” Ginny said, as though reading his mind, and didn’t hesitate to wait for him. She pranced off on her toes, pressing herself against the wall and poking her head around. Instantly, she whipped around and went pink in the face. _‘Oh, my God,_ ’ she mouthed, her eyes wide.

“What is it?” Harry asked in a whisper.

“I think I know why Malfoy didn’t hex the Bludgers this time.” Ginny’s grin was frightening. “He didn’t want to risk them deforming his boyfriend.”

Harry’s prudishness seemed to melt away faster than an ice cream cone in the summer, and he bounded over to where Ginny hovered in ill-concealed glee. What could she mean about Malfoy’s _boyfriend_? If anyone had asked Harry, he’d have said Malfoy was dating Parkinson, from the way that girl latched onto him and didn’t let go. She seemed to never be further than three feet away from Malfoy at any given time.

But it seemed Malfoy maybe didn’t fancy her so much.

If he fancied Pansy, he wouldn’t be pressed against the wall by the Ravenclaw Captain. And he wouldn’t let said Ravenclaw Captain stick his tongue so deep into his throat, it looked like he was about to devour him.

Harry realized he’d been clenching his fists so hard, his nails were digging into his skin. He struggled to take in breath, trying to be as quiet as possible while moment by moment, the air around him thinned.

“Harry,” Ginny whispered, attempting to tug him away by the sleeve.

Malfoy’s eyes fluttered open, he frowned into his kiss. Just as he was turning his head to look in the direction of the whisper, Harry turned and ran, with Ginny following close at his heels. His heart beat madly, but he didn’t think Malfoy had seen him. He only stopped when he was safely concealed within a changing room, curtain shut all around him.

The curtain was violently pulled back and Ginny appeared, her face pink from the flight. Laughter was written on her face. “Harry, did he see you? That was so close! Can you believe Malfoy and _Collins_? Merlin, this is mad, I wonder how long it’s been going on, do you think they’re dating, will they be at the pub tonight -- ?”

“You can’t go to the pub,” he muttered, “you’re not an eighth year.”

“I can find a way!”

“Ginny,” Harry gripped her shoulder and pulled her into the changing room with him, then tugged at the curtain to hide them, “be quiet, he might come looking for us.”

“So he did see you?!”

Harry slapped his hand over her mouth and held her very still. Her eyebrows furrowed but she didn’t manage to pull away. Harry listened….

“No, I don’t think they’re coming,” he said finally, releasing Ginny, who huffed and batted at the fringe that had fallen into her eyes. “But I could have sworn he saw me.”

Another grin found its way to Ginny’s face. “We can find out tonight at the pub. I’m sure he’ll be there.”

Harry bit his lip. He was sure Collins would be there, too. Did he really want to spend an evening watching Malfoy hang all over another bloke? God, why did he care? Wanking over Malfoy in the shower was one thing -- a very crazy, insane thing that he cringed about-- but he didn’t give a toss who Malfoy was _actually_ fucking. Did he?

Perhaps before he’d just never thought he stood an actual chance. He always considered Malfoy to be straight, after all, what with Pansy tailing him everywhere. Harry had genuinely thought they were a couple.

But now… Well, now his little fantasy wasn’t so based on fantasy, was it? Meaning, it was possible. At least in some universe on some level. Malfoy liked blokes.

Malfoy liked blokes.

“Harry? _Harry_!”

Oh, yeah, Ginny was still here, and they were in the changing rooms.

His cheeks were blazing. “It’s bloody hot in here,” he groused, throwing the curtain open and inhaling some much needed fresh air.

The pub was overcrowded with Gryffindors set upon drinking themselves silly to celebrate the win. It was the only way to celebrate properly according to Ron and Seamus, who were never three feet away from the bar and had already split a _very_ large pitcher between the two of them. Hermione was still halfway through her first drink by the time they received their second pitcher.

“Are you looking for him?” Ginny asked in a low voice, making Harry jump.

“No!” He nearly spilled his beer when she appeared out of nowhere. “And don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Does Ron know you’re obsessing over him again?”

“I am not!”

“Hermione definitely knows, she knows everything.” Ginny took as small sip of her beer and looked up at him with big, innocent eyes.

“You’re just making fun of me. And I am not obsessed with him.”

“With who?”

“Malfoy!”

“Funny… I never mentioned Malfoy, did I?”

Harry balked. “Yes you did.”

“I really didn’t.”

“Ginny,” he huffed. “Sod off.”

“Okay, well,” she said with a sigh, “he’s over there anyway.” She indicated with drink in hand.

Harry spun to look, only then noticing Ginny grin widely at him.

“I don’t care,” he said, sounding a bit lame. “He can stand wherever he wants, this is a public place.” But she had already walked away with her big grin on her face. So Harry licked his lips and tried to covertly glance to his right.

Oh, fuck it -- He turned around fully and outright stared.

Sure enough, Malfoy leaned against the far end of the bar, where Ginny said he was. Maybe Harry should go over there. To talk to him.

His stomach fluttered madly.

And he was about to -- had even taken the first, hesitant step -- when Collins’ body blocked his view of Malfoy. Collins beat him to it.

With a new sense of urgency pulling at him, Harry wove his way between people, always craning his neck to keep them in sight. Collins placed his hands on Malfoy’s hips, hooking his fingers into Malfoy’s pockets, and Harry saw red.

Malfoy smiled at Collins, his face lighting up in a way Harry had never seen, and red was replaced by sudden, heavy black. He pushed the horrible feeling aside. Malfoy looked up at him right at that moment, and his smile faded into a scowl.

Now Harry had no choice but to approach them, or else Malfoy would think he was running away. Squaring his shoulders, Harry walked toward them. Collins looks up too, seeing Malfoy was distracted. His hands snapped away from Malfoy’s body, as if he suddenly realized that they were in public and that others could see him molesting Malfoy’s trousers.

“Oh, hullo,” Collins said, clearing his throat. “Well done today.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks. And you all played great. It was anyone’s match.” It really wasn’t -- Gryffindor won ridiculously easily -- but since Collins was being polite about it…

“Cut the small talk, Potter,” Malfoy spat.

Well, _someone_ wasn’t concerned about being polite, unsurprisingly.

“Do you often perv on people snogging?” Malfoy asked. But his cheeks coloured slightly pink as he said it, revealing his embarrassment under all that feigned bravado.

Collins’ eyes shifted, and he looked at the floor and then at the the crowd. Admittedly, Harry had no response either because he had been sneaking -- if not _perving_ \-- on them and it was not something he was eager to admit. But he had done it. Opening his mouth didn’t help because nothing came out and he ended up looking extremely guilty, and stupid.

“You’re not even going to deny it, are you,” Malfoy asked, with an air of incredulity. “Incredible.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry said, but again, he felt totally lame.

Malfoy scoffed and turned to Collins. “Come on, let’s dance.” He watched Harry as he led Collins to the small dance area where people were not so much dancing as jumping up and down in general drunkenness. Collins didn’t looks completely comfortable but he let Malfoy manhandle him along and swayed obediently, if awkwardly, to the lively music.

Malfoy didn’t take his eyes off Harry. It was like their own silent game of stare, each challenging the other to look away first. Malfoy’s eyes could pierce a person from ten feet away.

“He’s such a tease,” said a deep, haughty voice from beside him.

“Oh,” Harry said to Zabini, “hi. I didn’t see you there.” He wondered how much Zabini had seen… and noticed. Zabini’s permanent smirk always unnerved Harry more than he’d like to admit. It seemed like he was never upset, always in control of himself. So opposite of Malfoy both, who was like a spark.

Even now, Zabini stared coolly at the dance floor with a knowing look. “He’s just being a horrible tease. Don’t worry, Potter.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m not worried about anything.”

“All right.” Zabini smiled. “As long as you say so.” He sipped his drink, brown whiskey with two ice cubes. “But just in case you are, I’m telling you there’s no need. If anyone should worry, it’s Pansy.”

Harry turned to fully face him. “Pansy’s concerned about Malfoy?”

“She’s always been concerned about Malfoy. Does he like her, does he not like her...? It’s gotten so fucking boring, let me tell you.”

“And why are you telling me?”

Zabini turned away from watching Malfoy and Collins dancing. “Because you’re decidedly _not_ boring."

God, Harry bloody hated Slytherins sometimes. Why couldn’t they ever be straightforward about anything?

“Yeah,” he said, before throwing back the rest of his beet. Deciding he would vomit if he stayed any longer, Harry turned away from the whole lot of them and went to find Ron and Hermione. Well, more Hermione because Ron was useless in his current state, whereas Hermione would genuinely care that Harry was leaving early.

“I’ll come with you,” she said, setting down her single, unfinished drink of the evening. “I’m in the middle of my Arithmancy textbook and I have been dying all night to go back finish chapter twenty-three.”

Harry didn’t even bother to comment on how odd she was; he was trying to look at Malfoy while not looking at him, so as to determine if Malfoy was noticing him leaving, and if he looked like he cared.

 

 

“Will you put that ruddy map down?” Ron whined at Harry. “It’s giving me a headache looking at you.” He clutched his head and shoved his face into his pillow with a pathetic moan.

“You have a headache because you drank a gallon of beer last night,” Hermione said, sitting on Harry’s bed with her legs crossed and her textbook in her lap. She was now on chapter thirty-nine.

Harry sat with his back against his headboard and his face in the Marauder’s Map. Had been for hours. Hermione had brought them breakfast at around ten, obviously perky and well rested, and they had been lying around ever since. Sundays were slow and easy like that, though usually Hermione would have tried to get them to the library by now. He figured she was being nicer today since Ron was hungover.

“What are you even looking for?” Ron asked Harry.

With his eyes on Malfoy’s dot, Harry replied, “Nothing.”

“Just policing the school?” Ron teased.

Harry forced himself to laugh, but he barely heard what Ron had said; Malfoy’s dot was swirling around in little circles on the parchment. “Why is Slytherin practicing right now?” Malfoy must be really serious about winning if he was making his team practice on Sundays.

In the Quidditch stands, Pansy Parkinson’s dot sat idly.

“Fuck Slytherin,” Ron said before putting his face back into the pillow.

“Oh wait, I think practice just ended,” Harry declared, watching the dots stop circling the pitch. They huddled together in the center of the pitch for a minute before all the names smushed together into a blob of letters while they began walking together up the path toward the castle. Every dot, that was, except for the one that read _Draco Malfoy_ in tiny cursive. “He’s going toward the changing rooms,” Harry said, continuing his verbal account of the action. “Now he’s in there, I think heading toward the show-- uhm, putting the balls away.”

“Just go, Harry,” Hermione said, not looking up from her book. She licked her finger and flipped the page.

“I’m not going,” Harry said. Although he had sat up straighter and had been about to extend one foot off the bed.

“Your cloak’s under my robes over there,” Ron said.

All right, so he wanted desperately to go. They could think it was because he wanted to check on whether or not Malfoy was going to hex the Bludgers; he’d been talking about that long enough that they were both sick of him, not that they’d admit it outright.

“Make sure he’s not trying anything funny,” Ron said as Harry swept out the door.

Harry rubbed his hands together under the cloak, glad when he finally reached the changing rooms. The stark change in the air, the welcome warmth, was even more distinct because of the steam. It rolled out past the pillars like a great fog, the light of the lanterns catching wisps of it. The sound of the spray was a siren’s song, and Harry followed, his body tingling with anticipation of what he would find.

An open curtain, perhaps?

No, it was wrong of him to hope for an open curtain. He was only here to make sure Malfoy didn’t start tampering with the balls. The Quidditch balls. God, now he was picturing Malfoy's balls.

And then he didn’t have to picture them because there they were, right in front of him, perfect pink globes between Malfoy’s shapely thighs. Harry clenched his teeth together to keep himself silent as a grunt of admiration threatened to escape his throat.

Malfoy slid a large yellow sponge over his chest, rubbing it in wide circles, around one nipple and then the other in a mesmerizing pattern. Harry had to shake himself to stop staring. When he looked up at Malfoy’s face, grey eyes were staring right at him. Harry’s heart jumped. For a split second he thought he was caught, but then Malfoy looked down at himself.

Harry was under his cloak; there was no way Malfoy knew he was here. But just to be sure… He side stepped closer to the pillar, half hiding behind it. But he was unable to hide completely because it was impossible not to keep looking at Malfoy’s soapy, wet body.

He didn’t even bother to stop his hand from reaching down into his trousers. He just hoped his zipper didn’t make much noise when it opened. The splatter of the water surely covered that up. Soon, Harry’s cock was free. He lazily tugged at it while watching Malfoy soap up the rest of his bloody gorgeous body.

And then Malfoy turned around, and all of Harry’s blood seemed to drain south all at once, and he was lightheaded and aroused and practically seeing stars in the steam.

Malfoy placed a hand on the tile in front of him, leaning over and spreading his feet. The cheeks of his arse spread apart until his pink arsehole was completely on display. With his other hand, Malfoy squeezed the soapy sponge, and a trail of suds streamed between his cheeks. Harry watched fervently as Malfoy clenched his hole; probably the hot water stung the sensitive area, especially since it dripped over the back of his sack. Harry moaned.

No, that wasn’t him. Fuck, it was Malfoy who’d moaned.

Malfoy turned his head in an attempt to look at his arse and pushed the sponge up and down his crack, over and over and over his arse hole, biting his lip while he assaulted himself with the sudsy sponge. Harry wanted to rip off his cloak and take the sponge from Malfoy’s hands. Take over for him. Hold Malfoy’s hips steady as he roughly moved the sponge over that spot so that Malfoy squirmed and moaned even more and begged Harry to stop.

Harry was pumping his cock hard now, spreading his leaking precum over his shaft. It was so hard not to let his jaw slack and make breathy noises, but he had to try. Especially since Malfoy looked up like he was expecting to see someone. But of course, he couldn’t be; as far as Malfoy knew, he was completely alone.

He didn’t think he could get more aroused, that is until Malfoy dropped the sponge altogether and spread his legs further. All that soap had made his slippery and wet, and Malfoy began to touch his arsehole tentatively. Using two fingers, he made small circles around his entrance, and Harry had to close his eyes for a moment and try to temper his arousal. This was so much better than his wank fantasies. Those really didn’t even compare. When Harry opened his eyes, he decided he really shouldn’t have, because Malfoy was going to give him a heart attack if he got any fucking sexier.

Malfoy’s fingers had, at some point, stopped their rubbing and began to tease his hole open. All the time, Malfoy turned to watch himself as best he could, his mouth open and his lips bright pink with lust and exertion and _heat_. He closed his eyes and, with concentrated effort, pushed one finger into himself. The noise that escaped Malfoy was like a strangled moan and a throaty grunt all in one. He worked his finger until it slid easily in and out of his arsehole, in and out, until he was fucking himself steadily.

What Harry wouldn’t give to go over there right now. He wanted to pull Malfoy’s hand away and replace it with his own. Or possibly replace his fingers with his cock and ram into Malfoy’s sweet arse until Malfoy couldn’t stop crying out his name.

No, what Harry really wanted was to stand next to him with one hand over Malfoy’s throat and one hand gripping his waist, and commanding Malfoy to keep fingering himself. To finger himself harder, to push more fingers into his greedy hole, to keep fucking himself until Harry let him stop. The filthy slut, touching himself and enjoying it so, so much.

Harry stopped breathing for one gorgeous, erotic moment as his muscles tightened up and he came. He shut his eyes, losing himself in his fantasy until it was over. Until his mind came back to the world and he registered the insane beating of his heart.

When he came opened his eyes again, he saw Malfoy had stopped. He was looking in Harry’s direction.

Harry experienced a moment of sheer panic, but he reassured himself that Malfoy could _not_ see him. There was no way -- Harry was invisible.

But Malfoy was looking around, taking his hand back and straightening up, his eyes focused on the area Harry was standing. Maybe Harry had made a noise and hadn’t realized it.

Hastily, he tucked his cock away, not daring to even zip his trousers back up because Malfoy was alert now and definitely listening for noises. A sudden wave of sick guilt threatened to crumble Harry’s knees, and he held onto the pillar for momentarily support. Unable to look at Malfoy anymore, he turned as quietly as he could and tip toed out of the shower area.

He couldn’t leave fast enough, ignoring the way the way the night air bit at his skin with chilly fangs, almost painfully harsh after the heat of the showers. He didn’t even think about whether or not Malfoy heard the door shut behind him. All he wanted to do was get back to Gryffindor tower as quickly as possible and pretend he hadn’t just watched Malfoy in secret.

This was so completely wrong of him, and he felt like the biggest pervert ever. Maybe Malfoy was right for calling him out at the pub, maybe Harry as a gross pervert who stalked people. When he finally pulled his cloak off, he felt like never putting it on again.

 

 

It was just his luck that Malfoy was in the library the next evening after classes, sitting at a table with Zabini and Parkinson. Harry kept trying not to look over and to just concentrate on reading his textbook, but he found that every half page or so, his eyes had somehow wandered across the room. Like they were purposefully disobeying his brain.

“Can you stop?” Hermione snapped. Her voice was barely over a whisper but it was still scary.

Harry only raised his eyebrows at her in a, _What do you mean?_ look.

“You’re distracting me,” she said.

“How does where I’m looking distract you?” he whispered back defensively.

“You keep raising your head to look up at him, and I see it from the corner of my eye.”

“Well maybe then you shouldn’t sit across from me.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t! Maybe I’ll move.”

“Merlin,” Ron interjected, “would you both move?”

Hermione ignored him and asked Harry, “What’s so fascinating about him this time, anyways?”

Images of soapy water trailing down Malfoy’s toned thighs assaulted Harry’s brain, and he swallowed. “Nothing,” he breathed.

“Then stop watching him, he’ll catch you looking.”

“Too late,” Ron added, nodding over to Malfoy’s table.

Much to Harry’s embarrassment, it wasn’t only Malfoy who was watching him. Parkinson glared daggers, and Zabini smirked in his unnerving way. They had obviously both caught on that Harry had been glancing at their table over the last hour. Harry’s cheeks got hot and he looked away from Zabini, who could probably see straight through Harry’s brain and into his Malfoy fantasies.

Malfoy pushed his chair back and made to get up from his seat.

Parkinson grabbed the sleeve of his robes but he managed to wave her off.

Oh, no, was he coming over?

Harry looked down at his textbook, at the blurry column of words, for about three seconds and almost immediately glanced back at Malfoy. He wasn’t coming over, he was walking toward the bookshelves behind their seating area.

Malfoy caught Harry’s eye and held his gaze, making Harry’s heart jump, before disappearing between the stacks.

Harry watched the place where Malfoy had been. It was like the empty space was calling him and pulling him from his seat, and before he knew it, he was pushing back his own chair and getting up.

He followed Malfoy’s winding path around the bookshelves until he finally stopped in front of one. As Harry approached, Malfoy pretended not to notice and scanned the shelves. It was even quieter back here, and the lamplight was dimmer and more haunting. The smell of dusty old books, solitary and forever waiting on their shelves, only added to Harry’s awareness that they were _alone_. He was alone with Malfoy, somewhere they could not be seen. The thought made his body tingle with anticipation.

He tried not to think about last night. It would be much easier for him to breathe right now if he didn’t imagine Malfoy with his clothes off in the middle of the library. But he couldn’t deny that surrounded by steam or by books, Malfoy made a gorgeous sight. And they were alone, shielded by rows of bookshelves, where no one could see if they happened to stand close together...

Harry pushed the thought away for the moment, feeling the temperature rise in this part of the library. “Looking for a book?” he asked.

“No, I’m hunting for kneazles,” Malfoy said dryly as his eyes continued to roam over the various titles before him.

Harry stepped closer, his approach making Malfoy turn and finally focus his attention on Harry. “What are you looking for?” Harry asked.

Malfoy shrugged. “This and that.”

“You wanted me to follow you here.”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. He could easily deny it, because of course, he hadn’t actually asked Harry to follow him. That was more Harry’s initiative than anything else; but he had felt as though Malfoy wanted him here. Something about the way Malfoy had looked at him as he walked into the stacks, his eyes pulling Harry just as much as if he had grabbed Harry by the arm.

To his surprise, Malfoy didn’t deny it. “I just wanted to ask if you were ready for our match on Saturday.” Malfoy’s smirk was definitely not friendly.

In all his sexual frustration, Harry had completely forgotten about the Gryffindor-Slytherin match. And he had also forgotten that the reason he was following Malfoy around again -- the real reason -- was to catch Malfoy in the act of hexing the Quidditch balls. With this reminder dawning on him, Harry instantly felt sick.

“Yeah, we’re ready,” Harry muttered, swallowing down the heavy feeling building in his chest. So far he hadn’t caught Malfoy anywhere near the equipment storage, and all his sleuthing had been for naught. But if it wasn’t the Slytherin team hexing the Bludgers and the rest of the balls, who was it?

He wanted to ask Malfoy outright. The words hung on the tip of his tongue.

“Good, because so are we, and I’m not going easy on you just because you’re the Saviour,” Malfoy said, his eyes glittering. He was smiling. Actually smiling a real smile. At Harry.

“Have you ever gone easy on me?” Harry let his lips twitch up shyly.

“I’ve let you win multiple times, Potter.”

Harry laughed. “Oh, so every other year has been you _letting_ me win?”

Malfoy grinned, and if the lamplight weren’t so dim, Harry would say Malfoy’s cheeks were pink.

“Why would you let me win if you hate me so much?”

And then Malfoy’s grin disappeared, and Harry wished he could take back his words. He was struck by a hasty need to return the smile to Malfoy’s face, if only he could find the right thing to say to bring it back. He felt his lips move but he couldn’t find the words.

“I don’t hate you,” Malfoy said first, while Harry floundered. “How could I?”

“You never seemed to have a problem with that before.”

“You’ve done so much for us… for everyone. I think...” It was clear Malfoy himself wasn’t expecting to be saying these things so openly, because he turned back to the bookshelf and resumed scanning the books as if he’d find answers there. “I think you’re not that bad, really.”

Harry wasn’t that bad.

Coming from Malfoy that was like a declaration of true love, or at least that’s how it felt to Harry, who got the feeling he was floating a little bit off the ground. He could really have been for all he knew because one moment he was a respectable distance away from Malfoy and the next moment he was basically on top of him, though how he got there he didn’t recall.

All he knew was that he was holding Malfoy’s arms and pushing him into the bookshelf. Harry pressed their lips together, drowning in the feeling. His mind careened with happiness and arousal.

Finally he pulled away, looking into Malfoy’s face. The startled expression brought Harry back to his senses.

Had he really just done that?

He’d just kissed Malfoy out of the blue. Merlin’s bollocks, he’d just kissed him. All because Malfoy had said Harry _wasn’t really that bad_.

What would Harry have done if Malfoy had actually said he liked him? Gotten down on one knee and proposed marriage right there? Bloody hell, he was losing his mind.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Harry said. He ran a hand through his hair. “I have no idea where that came from, I am so sorry. I…”

He was going to hide under his invisibility cloak for the rest of term. Maybe he could take his exams in it and still get his marks. He could wear it to dinner and eat under the cloak, too. It was probably doable. And it meant he’d never have to see Malfoy again, or anyone else Malfoy was going to tell about this, and he was surely going to tell everyone.

He chanced a glance at Malfoy, only to find him smirking. Great.

Malfoy reached onto the shelf -- the one he’d been crushed again -- and pulled out on thin, ratty looking book with brash silver lettering. He handed it to Harry, who was so disoriented by his own thoughts he held out his hand and accepted it without question.

It wasn’t until Malfoy walked away that Harry managed to read the cover.

_Modern Tools for Magical Voyeurism and Espionage_

Harry stared at the book for a little bit longer, letting it sink in. It couldn’t be possible that Malfoy knew Harry had been following him. It simply didn’t make any sense; Harry had been under the cloak. He had been invisible. So what did this book mean?

 

 

In Hermione's opinion, handing Harry that book was a clear hint that he knew. "You really have to stop now," she said. "If he's onto you, he'll never let you catch him doing anything bad now."

Harry was inclined to agree, but how could he explain to her the entirety of the situation without sounding like a complete pervert? It wasn't just that Malfoy knew Harry was onto him about the Bludgers; Malfoy knew Harry was watching him shower. And that was so, so much worse!

And if he knew Harry was watching him shower, did that mean that he had put on that little show... on purpose? It didn’t help that every time Harry passed Malfoy in the hallway on the way to class, he felt like he had jelly legs and a fit of butterflies in his stomach. Malfoy would smirk at him but he never came over to talk to Harry, and Harry wasn’t going to make the first move either; in fact, kissing Malfoy into a bookshelf was a pretty damn good first move in itself, so now it was Malfoy’s turn. And if Malfoy wasn’t going to strike up conversation, then Harry wasn’t either.

Besides, Harry had his memories to hold him over. He was quite unable to resist wanking to images of that night, especially with his newfound suspicion that Draco knew he had been watching.

"Maybe he knows about the cloak," Ron said as Harry blushed furiously and tried to dampen his daytime fantasies.

On top of his concerns about whether or not Malfoy was truly onto him, the girls were adamant about practicing everyday until the Slytherin match. Demelza, Ida, and Monifa had been independently doing their own Chaser's games before classes, unbeknownst to Harry or the rest of the team. They even had a war chant they sang after every practice. Even little Cecilia Lang chanted with fervor: _Knock Slytherin off their brooms! Knock Slytherin off their brooms!_

They were singing that chant on Saturday morning before the game. Cecila and Hilary had donned war paint, their cheeks smeared with black eyeliner pencil. In fact, they had brought their makeup with them to do the rest of the team. Harry had to dodge three attempts to dab pink blush on his cheeks as they all roared with laughter. These were the best players in Gryffindor house, but he had never felt so acutely outnumbered by girls in his life.

Their revelry was interrupted by a loud banging on the door to the Gryffindor changing rooms. “Come in!” the girls sang, and the door swung open with such force it banged against the wall and its hinges creaked. When they saw who was standing there, they all paused awkwardly in their war chant. Harry, for one, was immensely glad he hadn’t let them put blush on him.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, his face screwed up in anger, “step outside, please.” Without waiting for a response, Malfoy spun on his heel and marched out.

Harry ignored the raised eyebrows being shot his way and followed Malfoy out the door. He didn’t say a word until Malfoy had let him outside, around the side of the building, where they were totally alone.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked, wondering at the sudden change. He certainly hadn’t done anything wrong, unless blushing furiously whenever he saw Malfoy between classes and in the Great Hall counted as wrong.

“I’m going to ask you this one time, Potter, and I expect the truth.” Steam might as well have been blowing from Malfoy’s ears, he was so angry, and clearly trying hard to control it.

“What is it?”

“Did you have anything to do with Collins ending up in the hospital wing last night?”

Harry frowned. “Collins, the Ravenclaw captain? I had no idea he was in the hospital wing.”

Malfoy stared at him hard like he was trying to perform Legilimency. “Are you positive?”

“Yes, of course!” Harry said irritatedly. “What happened to him?”

“He broke his leg in a nasty fall late yesterday evening. Apparently he was pushed down that flight of rotating stairs on the third floor.”

“And you think I did that?” Harry’s temperature began to rise.

“You were about to rip his throat out at the Three Broomsticks when you saw us together.”

Harry blushed and looked away; was he that bloody obvious? Clenching his fists, he looked up at Malfoy. “I would never do that no matter how jealous I was.”

Malfoy’s whole body froze, his muscles tensing up. It was difficult for Harry to be so honest, and he thought he would stop breathing if Malfoy didn’t say something soon. He probably hadn’t been expecting Harry to be so honest either.

“You were jealous,” Malfoy said finally, his voice throaty.

A wave of desire gripped Harry, who wanted nothing more than to lean forward and grab Malfoy’s waist in both hands. He wanted to pull Malfoy close and say, _You have no idea how jealous._

If one of them didn’t break eye contact right now, they were going to end up kissing.

“Harry, get your arse to the pitch!”

Harry almost groaned out loud. It was Demelza calling him. He turned around and saw his team decked out in uniform and brooms in hand, walking in a big group toward the Quidditch ground.

“You’re not even ready yet,” Ida shouted at him. “Hurry up, we can’t play without our Keeper.”

Harry turned back to Malfoy, who had gone slightly red -- it was so endearing Harry wanted to say sod it and kiss him anyways. “I’ve got to go,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Yeah,” Malfoy said, “I probably should, too. My team will be waiting.” He didn’t wait for Harry before heading off, following the path Harry’s team had taken.

Bloody hell, Harry didn’t even have his gloves on yet. That little interlude with Malfoy was going to make him so late. He ran into the building, intending to whip on the protective padding as quickly as possible, when he heard a noise. Was somebody else still here?

Harry paused and waited for the noise again, and then it came from his left. It was a heavy-sounding thud… Like someone was handling the Bludgers and kept dropping them.

Harry’s pulse sped up. Someone was in the equipment storage room. Possibly the same someone who had been tampering with the balls all this time?

“Hello?” Harry called, and he heard a squeak of panic. The voice was high, like a girl’s. He walked over to the storage room, pressing a palm against the door to slowly swing it open. In his right hand, he held his wand, ready for anything.

And it was a good thing, too, because as soon as the door opened wide enough, jinxes began flying his way. One after the other, Harry blocked and dodged them until he finally got his bearings and cast one of his own. It was a perfect shot, right on target, and his assaulter was writhing on the ground.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Parkinson,” he said, watching her try to wriggle out of the rope that tightly bound her.

“Let me go, Potter,” she shrieked, rolling around to no avail. “Get these off me this instant!”

To the contrary, Harry pointed his wand at her. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“It’s none of your business,” she spat. Her face resembled a big angry pug, all scrunched up and ugly.

“Are you the one messing with the Quidditch balls?”

Pansy pursed her lips and said nothing.

“You could have had me killed! You could have injured my whole team!” Harry was so furious he could hardly see straight. The room seemed to be leaning to the right. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he yelled.

Running footsteps sounded from behind him, and then somebody was at the door. It was Ginny coming back to look for him.

“Harry?” she asked, spotting him with his wand out. Her eyebrows scrunched up. When she saw Parkinson on the floor, they shot back up. “What’s going on here?”

 

 

The match was canceled because Parkinson had already managed to mess with the balls, and they couldn’t well play with hexed equipment. The hexes were supposed to last up to four hours, and that was much too late to postpone it that day. The girls on the Gryffindor team would have to wait until next week to continue with their warrior song.

Harry tried to listen in on the meeting between Professor McGonagall and Slughorn, since he was Slytherin’s Head of House, concerning disciplinary action toward Parkinson. Sadly, McGonagall spotted him and promptly shooed him away. Harry stalked back to the common room, frowning.

“I wonder why she did it,” Ron said. He and Hermione had come to find Harry and they all sat around the fire. “Maybe Malfoy put her up to it.” He looked at Harry for confirmation of this theory, but since it made Harry feel sick to think about, he just continued staring at the fire and ignored Ron completely.

Eventually it got too stuffy in the common room and Harry decided to clear his head by flying for a while. The sun was starting to set, so it was actually a terrible time for flying as he was likely to be blinded by the harsh orange rays, but he just couldn’t stay inside another minute. He didn’t even wait to reach the pitch to mount his broom, swinging his leg over as soon as he passed the castle walls and speeding toward the Quidditch pitch.

He flew low to the ground at first, making a game out of dodging the trees, and eventually soared higher and higher. Eventually, the castle grounds were tiny and far away, like a puzzle board with all those little pieces fitting together over a green landscape.

And in the distance, he spotted a tiny dot moving, almost as if on the Marauder’s Map. A person walking -- no, running -- toward the Quidditch pitch.

Harry circled downward until he could make out more detail, and his heart skipped when he saw that the figure running toward him sported bright blond hair. For a moment, he considered being defiant and staying up in the air, just to make Malfoy wave and shout at him. Chase him around a bit. But Harry’s curiosity couldn’t withstand such games, so he took his broom in hand and swept down.

Malfoy was out of breath by the time he reached Harry. His cheeks were pink and his lips red from having run all the way. All Harry could think about was kissing them.

“They said you’d be here,” Malfoy said between breaths.

“Who did?”

Malfoy scowled. “Granger and Weasley, of course.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Harry asked, “You went looking for me?”

“Yes, well,” and this is where Malfoy bit his lip, of all things, “I have to tell you something.”

“Oh yeah? And what is that?”

Malfoy pressed his lips together, frowning furiously, and then sighed and let his whole body relax. “I’m sorry.” When Harry didn’t say anything, Malfoy went on. “I shouldn’t have accused you of pushing Collins down those stairs.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

Malfoy frowned again at Harry’s tone, as if to say apologizing was hard enough without Harry getting snippy with him. “It was Pansy,” he admitted. “She told me just now when she got back to the common room.”

“Merlin,” Harry sighed. “Why would she do that? What has Collins ever done to her?”

Malfoy looked like he wanted anything else than to admit what he was about to say. “It was really more like what he’d done to me… if you catch my drift.”

Harry’s throat felt dry, and he coughed. “Oh, right.” He understood perfectly what Malfoy meant; after all, Harry himself had been dealing with some serious feelings of jealousy regarding that matter. “So she nearly killed him because Collins had you, and she didn’t.”

Malfoy nodded. “I guess all this time, she just could never accept it was over between us. She and I were never meant to be long term; I realized I wasn’t actually interested in girls, as it were.”

“I see.” Harry fought the urge to cough again. “I suppose you're glad your boyfriend's going to get better. Of course, I mean... I'm glad he wasn't actually killed. Obviously." Oh Merlin, he was rambling like an idiot, and he was hardly making any sense. He hoped he didn't sound as bitter as he felt inside. 

Malfoy simply stated, "Not my boyfriend."

"Oh." Harry tried not to smile too broadly. "And what about the Bludgers and the Quaffles and all those times they attacked us during practice. Attacked _me_ , actually, as I seemed to have been their main target. Why was she trying to Bludger _me_ to death?”

“Oh, well, you see…” Malfoy’s cheeks blazed. But he firmly stared Harry in the eye and didn’t look away. “That was because I fancied you instead… instead of her.”

Harry’s heart was pounding almost too loudly for him to have heard that correctly. “You fancied me?”

Malfoy laughed nervously. “She’s a bit obsessed with me, actually.”

Harry stepped closer to him, making him flinch. “Is that what Zabini meant at the pub?”

Malfoy scrunched his eyebrows together. “Huh?”

“Nevermind. I just…” Harry stepped close, until he could feel the heat coming from Malfoy’s body and smell the distinct smell of his hair and cologne. He glanced down at Malfoy’s lips, at the perfection that was Malfoy’s mouth, leaning in ever closer…

Until Malfoy shoved him hard in the chest, and Harry shouted in pain as he stumbled back a few paces.

“I can’t believe you watched me have a shower!” Malfoy was coming at him again. “You complete pervert!” He shoved Harry again, and Harry lost his footing completely this time and fell onto his arse.

He was too stunned to react anyway. Oh, bloody hell, this was the absolute worst thing that could happen right now! All he could do was stare up at Malfoy with his jaw dangling, wondering how in the hell Malfoy knew.

“But…” Harry stammered. “But I was under the cloak. There’s no way you could have seen me.”

Malfoy knelt down in front of him, a scowl firmly in place. “That doesn’t mean I couldn’t hear you, you half wit! You think I didn’t know you were wanking to it, hidden away under that blasted cloak.”

“Oh, God.” Harry wanted the ground he was sitting on to open up and swallow him whole. “But how do you know about the cloak?”

“I heard Snape talking about it once,” Malfoy said. “And I was miffed because you had all the cool toys back then, and you were allowed to keep that thing even though it was against the rules. Because you were special.” A smiled pulled at his lips.

So maybe he wasn’t quite so angry about it.

In fact, when Harry’s mortification subsided enough to let him think straight, he realized that… “If you knew I was watching, then you were doing all that… filthy shit on purpose.” Harry’s stomach lurched, in a good way. “Weren’t you?” he asked again, this time unable to stop grinning.

Malfoy’s smile was shy, almost coy. “Perhaps I was.”

“So you liked the fact that I was watching you.” Harry placed a hand on Malfoy’s thigh, watching his blond lashes flutter instantly. Harry’s heart beat in his chest. “Turned you on, didn’t it?”

“Obviously. Did you not see me?”

“Oh, I saw you.” Harry grinned.

And with that, he lunged and pinned Malfoy to the ground, lying on top of him and holding his arms down. This time, he got his kiss. It felt like they were snogging for ages, Malfoy’s soft lips moving under his. Malfoy’s wicked tongue sliding against his.

“I’ve got an idea,” Harry said when they broke the kiss. “Let’s get you really, really dirty again so you have to go shower.”

Malfoy chuckled underneath him, his fringe a strewn across the green grass. “Only if you’re coming to watch,” he said, rolling his hips up.

Harry groaned and leaned down, taking Malfoy’s lips in another searing kiss.

He could certainly get used to this, kissing Malfoy. It was so much better than just watching him, because now Harry got to touch him. But a strange thought dawned on him just then, and he realized that if it weren’t for Pansy Parkinson nearly trying to kill him, Harry might never have got to snog Malfoy.

“What’s going to happen to Pansy anyway?” Harry asked, pulling away.

“Oh, who the fuck cares!” Malfoy wrapped his fingers through Harry’s hair and didn’t let him get away again for a quite a long time.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t the first time Harry had watched Malfoy shower after Quidditch practice, and he reckoned it wouldn’t be the last. However, this _was_ the first time Harry had forgotten the Invisibility Cloak in his room.

He hid behind a pillar that separated the showers from the changing rooms. He figured it was the best spot he could afford. Everyone else had left and he would be alone. Just to be more safe, Harry also Cast a Notice-Me-Not spell on himself. Unfortunately for him, just like Apparition, any and all Illusions Charms were also disallowed at Hogwarts.

He _should_ have known--he’d practically been there step by step with McGonagall regarding the rebuilding of Hogwarts after the war.

Forgetting everything else, Harry continued to watch. Malfoy liked taking his time under the hot and steamy water. He’d Summoned a cleaning potion and began soaping himself and he’d save his hair for last. Malfoy ran his fingers through his hair, lathering slowly and then letting out a breath as the suds washed away.

There was something about the way Malfoy bathed that enticed Harry more than anything else he would have done. Harry had watched him dance with other blokes, flirt with other blokes, even kiss them. Perhaps, since this was the only way Harry had Malfoy alone, all to himself, that Harry loved that moment the most.

He’d take this image with him to bed every night and though he knew he couldn’t have Malfoy; he always imagined and hoped he could.

Malfoy turned off the shower and began towelling himself. He’d dry his hair first. Then he’d bend down and start at his ankles and worked his way top. Fuck, Harry was so hard and he wanted to touch himself but he didn’t want to risk it, not without his Cloak.

Malfoy wrapped the towel around him and walked out of the shower area. He had an odd smirk on his face.

Harry figured he couldn’t lose anything. “You can see me, can’t you?” he asked, hesitantly.

“Fancy seeing you here, Potter,” Malfoy said, turning to face Harry. “Say, is that a wand in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

Harry smiled. “I thought I was going to be able to sneak up on you like before, since I know how much you like it.”

“How much you like it, you dirty perv.”

“Oh, you were practically putting on a show with that towel.”

Malfoy smirked. “I can definitely put on a show, Potter, if that’s what you want.”

Harry perked up, feeling like a loon the way he smiled from ear to ear. As much fun as it was being Malfoy’s secret audience, he couldn’t deny the appeal of actually being present. Of talking to Malfoy and touching him… and possibly even getting to join him in the shower.

 

 

END


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